Ice and Exile
by Tammany Tiger
Summary: Speculation. Me hacking around trying to integrate incoming data on *Empty Hearse,* which I have not yet seen, and try to make some guesses about what it implies for the new season's dramatic arcs. Mycroft, Sherlock, "caring," and Charles Augustus Milverton. It's...really, it's speculation played out as a mini-scene. I think better that way.


"Again, you miss the obvious, brother-mine," the Iceman said. The structural elements of the past three years spun out silently on his computer screen, out of Sherlock's sight, but, really, it should have been obvious to anyone with two neurons to connect in a cerebral network. One ought not to have been forced to leap from tall buildings to protect one's beloved friends, after all, without eventually working out the underlying principles. "It's not that being alone makes you safe. It's that it makes other people safe. We are targets of opportunity. That being so, we make those who care for us targets, too, if we let that caring be known. One might as soon simply paint a target on one's nearest and dearest. Caring is not an advantage. Especially to those one cares for."

Sherlock frowned at him, evaluating the tells even big brother could not edit out of his self-presentation entirely. Only now was he becoming concerned with the aching emptiness he recognized in Mycroft's life…and only now did he ask himself why such emptiness. It wasn't, actually that "real people" fell short, though surely there were many too dull to hold his attention for long. But Mycroft had never limited his love to those who were his mental match, or their parents would have been thrown under the bus decades since, rather than protected and gently watched over, as they were. "Come, now, Mycroft. Such protestations. Cowardice seems more likely. Alone because you're too afraid to attempt winning another's heart?"

Mycroft shrugged. "If you insist on diagnosis, you'd do well to have all the relevant data. Until you do, you've no more authority than any armchair diagnostician. I am not lonely, Sherlock. I am alone. I've had my Peter Guillam moment long, long ago, and protected myself and others appropriately."

Sherlock frowned. "Peter Guillam?"

Mycroft grimaced. "A cultural reference, Sherlock. Modern…quite modern. Look it up. The most recent adaptation of Le Carre's _Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy._ Suffice it to say that the way to protect yourself and those you love is to set them aside, or, better, never love them in the first place."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"My. You do like to reduce my options. So many ways I fail you, little brother."

Only Mycroft didn't fail him, Sherlock thought. He was maddening, frustrating, and brilliant in his errors. But he didn't fail Sherlock. Ever. He only failed himself.

His brother, slowly turning to ice, alone with a loneliness that made even Sherlock Holmes ache. Cold, calm, brilliant. Lost, lonely, afraid.

He thought, for no particular reason, of his own friends. Their greetings, ranging from John's fury to Lestrade's sweeping, instant affection and warmth. He wished he could, somehow, set his brother beside that warmth, and let him thaw.

"I worry about you," he said, finding the words foreign in his mouth.

"You need not," Mycroft said.

"Nonetheless."

"As you will."

Sherlock stood, then. "I'll be going home, then."

"Yes. You'll forgive me if I don't see you out?"

"Working so hard?"

"Reviewing past events. Concerned about future targets. Again, we open those we know up to attack."

Sherlock came around the desk and looked over his brother's shoulder. The screen was filled with thumbnail images: Their parents. John. Molly. Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade. Mary Morstan. "You think they're still at risk?"

"I'm sure they are," Mycroft said.

"Too late to protect them, though," Sherlock said, "at least by your methods. They're already known."

"Not known to be valued by me, though," Mycroft said, softly. "You are not the only one with enemies, brother."

After which he would say no more on the subject. It was only months later, as Charles Augustus Magnussen's evil ate out the heart of his life, that Sherlock realized how desperately much Mycroft had sacrificed to protect those he loved—and how little good it had done any of them.


End file.
